Shimmering as golden as Laurelin's warmth, gentle sunlight streamed in through the high window of the circular room from between carven branches of white marble that glimmered like fresh snow, rejoicing in the light. Speckles floating in the beam, little silvery sparkles that drifted lazily through the air on invisible rivers of their own. Someones warm hands were wrapped around his own, and Thranduil turned his head to see a wise, yet ever-young face framed by long silver hair. Pale gray eyes the color of clouds gazed upon him with the warmth of a deep friendship that had lasted for many centuries.
Celeborn smiled, just a little bit at the corners of his mouth, as if he were hiding a deep wealth of joy beneath a serious facade.
"It seems you've taken quite a bit of a journey. Welcome back my friend."
Thranduil looked around his bedchamber that felt unexpectedly full. Several of his healers stood around his couch, fluttering like excited birds with broad smiles on their faces, each bowing in turn as his eyes rested on them; yet, even more bustled in and out of the room on their own unspoken errands. Beside him sat a calm yet stern face framed with long dark hair - Master Healer of the hidden realm,Túrelië from Imladrís.
At last he found his own voice; yet the frailty of it shocked him. It sounded thin and breathy like a forlorn breeze. And it was only after speaking that he noticed the dryness of his own throat. Redoubling his efforts he forced some of his old resonance into the displeasing sound.
"It seems that I have slept overlong. What has happened? Do you know what became of me?"
Celeborn quirked an eye in subtle humour. "It seems that a certain elf-king had allowed himself to forget the words that a noble lady once spoke to him, concerning the perils of memory."
A chastised blush began to rise on Thranduils face. "I forgot nothing dear Celeborn. It is not always the want of memories that they come only when bidden."
The Lord of Lothlorien laughed. "True enough. I believe we can forgive you, this time."
There was in the hall a sudden commotion and the sound of slippered shoes coming nearer, sounding unusually loud for an elfs tread upon polished floors.
The entrance was left standing open and through it suddenly burst a tall elf, hair long and pale flowing over his shoulders and crowned in silver. For a moment Thranduil felt the utmost confusion, for surely it was his own reflection standing breathless at the door. But in the next moment this visions identity was revealed as the elf ran to the couch and threw both arms around him, holding him in a tight and joyful embrace.
"Ada! You've awoken! Thank Elbereth for this miracle! Irmo has returned you!"
For a moment Thranduil could only rejoice in this warmth, this love of his only child. This love that drove all the dark thoughts that had haunted him from his mind and washed Arda clean in rainbow hues again. At length they drew back to gaze at one another and as Legolas checked over his father - reassuring himself of his safe return - Thranduil gazed upon his son, clad in the finest of embroidered silver silks in a wardrobe that looked suspiciously familiar.
"I see I have missed a great deal, for unless I am mistaken - are those not my robes?"
Legolas cast a glance at his attire, then laughed as a sheepish grin spread across his face.
"I apologize, yet it was a dire necessity Ada. I did not think you wanted the dwarves to know of any hint of illness so a little harmless deception was necessary."
"Dwarves!" Thranduil suddenly exclaimed, pulling himself upright on his couch. His head still swirled with dizziness and for a moment his vision threatened to go dark again. But after a moment it faded again and he looked around at the assembled host, prickles of sudden concern rising along his neck. Celeborn stood there, his expression turning to a sombre kindness. Thranduil knew that the journey from Lothlorien would have taken some time, at least a day or more. All too suddenly was he aware of his dry mouth, his limbs aching from lying motionless for a long time. Raising his head he asked, holding the tremors from his voice.
"How long have I been asleep?"
And Celeborn breathed heavily, but Legolas responded. "Ada...I tried to wake you. But you wouldn't hearken to anything. You were...cold...as if near death. And then your wounds appeared."
At this a pained look came over his face but he continued. "The healers could not help you, you were beyond all they knew. So Celeborn was called for. Ada...you've been asleep for two weeks."
Thranduil sat in silence, absorbing the weight of those words. Yes. Legolas would have had to take all his duties then and act as King in his stead. The guests from Erebor would have arrived. And Celeborn would have traveled to give what aid he could. But the Kings mind returned and he sat tall, his mind focusing in on the task at hand.
"Then I have missed much. Tell me, what has transpired since I fell into darkness?"
Idhrerir raced along the corridor. He cursed he healers for not informing him sooner; now he was following hopelessly behind head of their order. For his own part the Head Healer of the Greenwood had many curses of his own to utter. Túrelië's knowledge was deep as for nearly an age he had aided the sick and injured and weary of spirit. Yet only twice in his long life since he had come over with the rest of the Noldor had he come upon the 'sleeping sickness' that ever so rarely affected elves. The Master Healer knew it's cause; the overburdening of the spirit with troubles of the past - and unwillingness to surrender ones memories to the march of time. He knew all too well the imbalance between the elvish Fëa and it's Hroa. The spirit of an elf was almost too strong for it's own body and ruled it to an extent unheard of among the mortal races; yet in middle earth this fatal flaw stood out in all it's dread clarity. For here, far from the light of Aman the body of an elf degraded with age until only the spirit was left behind, a wandering echo of will and thought without form. 'Fading' was merely death on a greatly lengthened measure of time. But more pressingly it was here that the Firstborn learned of their own frailty. An elf of course could be killed or succumb to injury or accident. But they could also die of grief, die of shock, or even choose willingly to lay down their own lives to escape a fate worse than death - and only the darkest sorcery could stop their departure then.
For an elf, the memory of a past hurt alone could be just as injurous to them as the wound when first made; he had seen the effects before.
And now as he entered the Kings chambers Túrelië saw his lord lying upon his couch, eyes shut to the world. The pale lips were muttering words too faint to catch and under his heavy lids twitching movements could be seen. For a moment the adviser stood in shock at the door as the Master Healer checked in with his assistants as to their rulers condition.
"He is stable, yet he shows no signs of being nearer to wakefulness."
And the Healer gave a deep sigh.
In that moment Thranduil issued a sharp gasp of pain, as if he'd been struck heavily by some unseen object. The healer looked concerned and approached warily, eyes looking intently over his charge. Yet; he need not have sought for any small sign of the kings condition - for in that moment great swells of red began to seep through the elf's fine tunic of silk, dying the amber threads to a dangerous crimson.
With choked cry Idhrerir raced straightaway to his kings side, clasping both of his masters hands with his. Yet in that moment he collapsed and fell catatonic against the couch, his hands still wrapped around Thranduils. And even as he was pulled down into a dangerous sleep he himself gasped with pain and upon his back began to spread a red flood issuing from wounds that had been long healed.
"Fool! For one patient is enough!" The Master Healer yelled, and with a strong arm he reached out, grasping Idhrerir's clothes and with a great wrench threw him aside.
And Idhrerir awoke, though still groaning in pain. But by the time a junior healer had lifted the back of his shirt and begun to clear away the blood the arrow-marks began to shrink and heal before their very eyes and the only clue of his trauma was the beading sweat on his brow and the stain on his fine clothes.
Now, with utmost caution, Túrelië knelt beside the couch. His hands ghosted over the deep wounds and his mouth moved quickly but with little sound and even in the breathless silence that had descended on the room his flowing words could hardly be discerned. But the healing spell did little.
"Quickly! Bring me fresh cloth and water - also my traveling kit, and be quick! These wounds can still be deadly!"
No less than three healers raced away down the hall, their hurried footsteps fading away. Idhrerir sat where he had fallen. His own wounds had closed once more but even if they had remained he would have hardly noticed. A sense of helplessness had come over him as he watched the Master Healer tend to his King.
"Master Councillor I have a task for you." Túrelië spoke, his voice breaking the rooms silence as it echoed heavily from stone walls. "You must find Legolas and inform him that his father is taken ill - but you must NOT let him come here again to him. Not until he is healed. Is that understood?"
Idhrerir nodded, lurching to his feet. A task in hand he felt more sure of himself.
"And send word to Lothlorien - say that the Lord must come here himself. For this illness is far beyond my capacity to heal - he needs someone far older than I...Now go! And quickly!"
For a moment Túrelië watched as Idhrerir departed, resolute focus back in his deep brown eyes. At nearly the same moment his aides returned and with wary glances awaited his instructions.
"Now...we must help, and wait." He spoke softly, gently touching Thranduils hand. While he could feel memories welling in his mind he still had control of himself. If he were strong and kept his head he would not be drawn into that dark web as well.
"While I hold onto him, you may touch him. Start with the wounds on his chest - ignore the rest. Do not suture them; when his memories shift they will fade on their own. Now work quickly, he's already lost a good deal of blood!"
"Yes sir!" Was a disorganized chorus of voices as each fell immediately into their well-practiced craft.
Legolas tried to still his pounding heart but even as he led the way to the stables he could hear the blood in his ears. He hoped he looked in control, that he seemed to know what he was doing - even if the truth was that he had never felt more lost in his life.
His boots echoed hollowly on the polished stone floors as he turned down the aisle. Numerous antlered heads peaked out to stare curiously at him - expecting a pat or a treat perhaps as they so often received when the prince visited. But their hopes came to nothing, for Legolas straightaway went to only one stall, nearly central to the stables. Inside was a lean but powerful creature, it's polished fur gleaming like burnished copper in the lantern-light as it moved.
"Alagos. I have urgent need of your speed this day. You will bear a messenger to Lothlorien, meant for the Lord Celeborn, and you will bear him here with all haste - the life of our King depends on it!"
And the stag tossed his head, for though the great deer of the green-wood could not speak they knew completely what was said to them in the elvish tongues and were intelligent enough to understand.
And Alagos was fitted with a saddle for a rider but when Legolas went to call one Idhrerir stepped forward and cast aside his court-mantle.
"I will go, for I have seen the Kings condition myself and know it's urgency."
"But..." Legolas hesitated. "I do not know the ways of the court, nor how to manage a kingdom yet."
Idhrerir spared a tense, but kind smile as he pulled himself into the saddle and moved Alagos towards the entryway that lead up a great ramp to the forest above.
"Contact Emlinn, he is second to me on the council - and he will know what to do in my absence. Now, Alagos - run swift as your name!"
In a blur of movement both steed and rider swept away up the ramp. The echoing horns of the gate-keeps sounded through the great caverns as they disappeared into the blinding light of snow-covered noon.
For a moment longer Legolas watched them, then turned away to find Emlinn.